


Don't Hold Your Breath

by carryonstarkid



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Character Study, Gen, It aint one of mine unless it's got a cadence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 02:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10867509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid





	Don't Hold Your Breath

Four AM.

It’s a jolt.  It’s a sting.  It’s a pinch in reality as his dreams snap shut.  Gordon’s mornings do not start with an alarm, they start with the sudden, strangling fear that he’s late for practices he doesn’t have—for a future he’s already met.  They start with a panicked, half-conscious race to throw his bag together and get to the locker room before his teammates notice he’s not there.  They start, always, with a breath.

Five AM.

By now he’s realized that he doesn’t actually have to explain his tardiness to his coach, because he doesn’t actually have a coach.  He doesn’t have a team.  He doesn’t have an assigned lane or a daily drill or a favorite kickboard.  All he has is a gold medal, collecting dust on the highest shelf in his room, and a lot of old swimsuits that hang and tear.

He jumps in anyways.  Wakes himself up.  Gets his head on straight.  It’s easy for him, letting the rhythm take over, one stroke after another after another.  It’s like riding a bike, but easier—like learning to walk, but more intuitive.  Breathing.  It’s like breathing.

Six AM.

Tiny round droplets of water scratch their way down his spine.  The ocean blows a breeze on his back.  Kayo’s up.  She’ll join him soon, but for now it’s just him.  Just him and the sunrise and the sound of waves lapping against the shore.  In, then out.  He brings his arms up over his head, slow, steady, keeping his balance.  In, then out.  He brings them back down, determined to keep his stance, but he knows that it doesn’t matter if he falls.  The most important part is that he remembers to breathe.

Seven AM.

Bacon.  A lot of bacon.  Bacon and sausage and omelets and toast—all of it floating on the air, waiting for licked lips and grumbling stomachs.  Virgil must be awake.  There’s a collection of sizzles and pops, and Gordon can actually smell the exact moment Virgil pours syrup over top of everything.  It’s the best thing about his mornings and so he stops for just a moment.  Lets himself take a nice long sniff.

Eight AM.

Scott’s reading the morning headlines.  It’s the kind of thing that used to bother Gordon, because it’s the kind of thing that used to remind him of his father.  Now it just reminds him of Scott.  It’s quiet. Just the two of them, Scott flirting with the biggest adventures of the day, Gordon getting intimate with whatever book one of his brothers has thrown at him this week, neither one of them entirely unaware of the other’s presence.  It’s as peaceful as it ever gets on Tracy Island.  A single sound exists between them—steady, soothing breaths—until they hear that triple tone and John shoves his way between serenity.

Nine, ten, eleven AM.

“Seriously, Gordon.   _Shut up_.”  Because he won’t stop talking.  Because he can’t stop talking.  Because if Gordon stops talking, he forgets to breathe.

Twelve PM.

“C’mon, Gordon.  I can’t hear you.  Count.”  Because that’s the thing with CPR.  You’re supposed to count.  You’re supposed to say what you’re doing, supposed to talk through it all, and it’s not just so that your team can follow you.  It’s so you can follow yourself.  If he doesn’t count, his throat gets caught.  If he doesn’t count, his pace speeds up.  If he doesn’t count, he gets all wrapped up in the what-ifs, the how-comes, the if-onlys, and then all of his air balloons somewhere in his chest.  One of these days he’s going to pass out.

One PM.

The victim’s still unconscious, but at least she’s stable.  He hates CPR.  The way their ribs crack beneath his palm.  The way their skin starts to turn cold.  The breathlessness of it all.  Whatever.  Part of the gig.  It’s whatever.  He and Virgil haul her into the ER and the doctors take her from there.  This place smells like white.  It’s overwhelming.  He leaves Virgil to fill out the paperwork so that he doesn’t have to stand around and hold his breath.

Two PM.

He’s an errand boy.  An errand boy with a nice ride, sure, but an errand boy.  Definitely.  He wishes he had a change of clothes.  He’s getting mud on her nice carpet and he’s not sure who’s blood stains his arm.  She won’t care, but still.  Not exactly proper.  He’s a copper blade cutting through the scent of flowers.  It takes a full breath in to gain the right amount of courage.  Takes a full breath out for him to realize he doesn’t need it.

Three PM.

“But they’re all safe?”

“M’yeah.  World Heritage should expect a lawsuit or two, but it should be fine.  Brought you the info.  Figure you’d know who to get it to.”

“But they’re _safe_.”

“Well they’re not dead, Pen.  That’s really all I know.”

Sometimes people will look at him like he’s heroic, and there’s nothing that makes him feel less so.  Still.  She might be the exception.  When she looks at him like that, he doesn’t want it to stop, doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want anything about this moment to change.  It’s the kind of moment that could shatter with even the slightest touch.  It’s the kind of moment that could pop with a single breath.

Four PM.

Another call from John.  Time for round two.  Scott’s finally crawled into bed with the day’s headlines and has found himself ill-prepared for the situation.  Surprise.  Virgil’s here to pick him up and Gordon’s hoping that he can just take a backseat to this one.  Or a co-pilot’s seat.  Whatever.  Virgil jabs a joke at him—something about how it’s been a while.  Gordon laughs.  It rolls off his breath, smooth as marbles.

Five, six PM.

Fucking idiot.  Fucking nutcase.  Goddamn fucking adrenaline junkie.  He doesn’t think—doesn’t wonder what they’re supposed to do if something happens to him.  Scott only ever _does,_ and he doesn’t take any time to wonder what he’s sacrificing.  Generosity only counts if it’s not at the cost of others and he doesn’t stop to think that his brothers need him more than their victims do.  Doesn’t feel like it.  Gordon knows that.  But it’s true.  It’s true, and Scott’s an idiot and now he’s pulled Alan into the mess and—

They made it.  Jesus christ, they made it.  When Virgil takes a breath in, Gordon knows he can let his own fall out.  “You shouldn’t hold your breath,” says Virgil.

“Sure.”

Seven PM.

Dinner.  Lots of it.  Gordon’s the only one who still counts calories.  The rest of them just eat until their stomachs feel like they’re gonna burst.  Probably helps them all fall asleep sooner.  Whatever.  Gordon doesn’t need help falling asleep.  He’s been up too long.  He’ll just take a few slices before he calls it a night.  Doesn’t even finish his third before his body starts to feel slow.  Before everything starts to feel too warm.  Before his breaths finally start to slow.


End file.
